Monday, November 12, 2012

directed by Christina May and Andre G Brown (Philadelphia performance)

directed by Kyla Kollmer McHale (NY performance)

Synopsis:

We picket for the unborn; we carton the missing, shush the battered and molest rape victims into believing it’s their fault. In an attempt to generate peace, we've become pieces of the machine that churn our embryos, our girls, our women, our females into seclusion; water-boarding their freedom and manufacturing their wombs with assembly-line legislature. Prisoners to their gender, we, society, have become the parasitic conjoined twin of the dogmatic cycle extending life sentences of invalidation. With scantily clad images, pejorative song lyrics, and abusive homes, we teach them to be the missing, the raped, and the forgotten.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

No need to ponder how little girls get raped into woman woes...she was only 11…With tramp stamped breast plate reading “wanna lick?”No mother with gripped ‘no’s protecting her innocenceWayward traveling clutched to hunger games fed by attention meat mongersNo need to ponder how little girls get raped into woman woesWhere hands dance across the face like memoriesBruise penned in the one-time promiseNever keptPaint-by-number in mascaraCover-up mistakes madeConnecting the dots with blush strokes that can’t add up to the number of lies preceding themNo need to ponder how little girls get raped into woman woesAs whispers of glitter quiet loved ones from worryWishing there was a different story to tellBut it’s cheaper to stay battered and beatenPinch pennies to window shopBrowsing glass bottoms for the one dayto read something newNo need to ponder how little girls get raped into woman woesTraining them to bare burdensBare chested under the weight of patricideOr dick swabbed by faceless fathersWhere pleas for “daddy” go unheardHead stroking for salvationOnly she can hear her heart beat breaking while it snaps under the pressure…she was only 11…No need to ponder how little girls get raped into woman woesWe teach them…We team them by reminding them that their money-maker isn’t their mindsPussy-powered in Hello KittyStrung up polesHung to dry on coke line residueDollars making the only senseSince we teach them that Victoria’s Secret isn’t beyond the bed and bathBut into the arms of a wanton strangerPlastering the tapestry of their worth as milk carton portrayals of what they could have been...she was only 11…And she could have been moreFor now, all we do is replay each paragraphre-pigment each newsprint page;plug the space between with unknownsunfound, unwanted by limited statutestrudge forward as if they never bore the bruntNo need to ponder how little girls get raped into woman woesWe teach them…

Once you purchase your ticket here, you will be invoiced with a physical ticket number that you MUST bring to the Box Office along with a PROOF of industry!(valid proof of industry: Business card, Headshot, resume, Equity card,Playbill, Flyer w/name, or Live Arts/Fringe badges)

Sunday, August 26, 2012

There was a time when she could haveAdored the space between theMélange of mouth, eye and nose whereEar regaled in the unabashedSincerity of selfHad she knownAge wouldn’t plague the wisdom she so soughtShe could have thought twice when splicingHer wrists to paint “I Love You’s in the ink of herAcrimony of breathNo one told her she was kind, smart or important, so sheAffixed rope remnants ‘round her neck to adorn the neverYielding fallacies she so scribed, scribbled, scratchedHeavy handedly through parchment chambers, pumping distilledAgony to brain dead promises; vegetable to realityWishing supported life didn’t rest on theKindness of strangers; canIt be too late to whisper to theNape of her naivety “this too willSoon pass?”

“I wanna know

Please show me

I wanna know

About the stranger like me”

Tell her…tell herAbout theMemories of momentsEtched inSaccharine forget-me-nots; seeHappiness is a state of consciousnessAplomb to theStrength she keepsHolding backAbandon the Notion thatAll is lost. Tell her...tell her that herYear is on the Horizon. Fret no longerAt the thought of self-destructionWeep in the collimation ofKnowing she will wedge throughItNothing can forge against the She, she was destined to be

Monday, April 16, 2012

Excerpt of the final performance of "Seeking Silence" in NYC."Seeking Silence" was written by TS Hawkins. Puppets and Masks were created by Kyla McHale and Joesph Therrien. This piece was designed and performed by TS Hawkins, Kyla McHale, Joseph Therrien, Renee Dumouchel, Katie Issel Pitre and Kathryn Wilkening.

Review:"Seeking Silence" raises thoughtful questions and respects its audience enough to not provide overly simplistic answers. As the masked performers join together at the piece’s conclusion to become a sort of communal body, collectively breathing life into a giant puppet who has been sleeping at the foot of the stage, there is a sense of hope and unity, but it is not naïve or easy. There is a “library of thought” and work to be done by all of us seeking to build a true democratic community.

Alphabet Arts created Puppets & Poets in part to test our theory that mixing seemingly-disparate art forms can create something new that is perhaps more expressive and more effective in communicating and connecting with audiences. "Seeking Silence" proves this theory correct. It is an impressive feat (and a rare treat) to see poetry, puppetry, mask, and dance/movement fused so beautifully on stage. ~Amber West, MFA, PhD Poet & Alphabet Arts co-founder

Friday, April 13, 2012

Sensation of verses pulsate unsolicited phalanges to scribbleScrawlSquiggleWhere parchment scratches passion inked out loudNever quieting long strokes through sheetsCrinkle moans with ballpointPen in between breathsSpill insideDoodle diagramsDipped noted nipplesSwirl cumshaws ‘round spineEnlace erasure indentationsThere’s no paraphrasing hereGraphing until thesis is leaking down thighsLick lexicon around diction’s napeDelectation is spelled with tabbed back archesTravailing POV’s created over coffee and teaEnter controlAltDelete the assumptions of what this wasDraft me rawUnedited Authenticity tastes better quilled on my skin

Thursday, March 29, 2012

If my son was Trayvon Martin...
He'd be the embryonic melee I crafted from neglecting my past
adorned in media backlash
hood donned in new ghettos
where neighbors watch neighbors gun down peace in candy coated innocence
complacent to the status quo
my arms the concrete streets you now lay your head
where strangers click "like" at your funeral;
re-tweeting eulogy as symbol of activism
If my son was Trayvon Martin...
The Scottsboro Boys and Emmett Till would have etched told-you-so's through my uterus
raping aborted hope from the lining of my womb
reminding me its not over until the white lady screams
If my son was Trayvon Martin...
X would mark the beginning
the never-ending cycle of debauchery where tranquility is found in bloodstain blueprints
HISTORY; the skipping American booze record drowning future in scapegoated fortune
masked in
white noise...
white noise...
white noise...
fades to black
where black fades to the inseam of the mainstream agenda
executing truth to the lies of judge and jury
as "I Am Troy Davis" t shirts become currency for Oscar Grant and the misfires of justice
tasing our faces with the same paint used to tell our legacy
lethargy; the paralyses we allow to tap shoe in tar covered pigmented yesteryear
If my son was Trayvon Martin...
It would be just another Thursday April 4th 1968
assassinated mountaintop hopes
too high for the consciousness of some
If my son was Trayvon Martin...
He'd be the fraternal twin of the Jena Six that swung like new news until the nation grew tired of hanging its dirty laundry
If my son was Trayvon Martin...
It means I still live in a world where I failed to do my part
Where Mother Land means mother wounded circumstances
attempt to balance inequities with club parties and commercial apologies
So until social constructs mean more than updating Facebook
to StumbleUpon a new call to action
I postpone his entry into society
But name him Aydin Euchynin; God's fiery gift
so you'd never call him HEADLINE
Let him know, that as his mother, its better I pull the trigger

Saturday, March 17, 2012

Click on the photo of the Z-Maniacs to help Keisha Johnson raise funds in finding a cure for the National MS Society & receive a FREE demo copy of TS Hawkins new poetry cd "Running Still Water"!!!

[read more below]

My mentor Keisha Johnson is doing a very amazing thing...Zumba-ing for MS! Last year, her group the Z-Maniacs, raised $3000 and this year they have set their sights higher but they need your help!!!!

I, TS, have donated monetarily already but decided to take it a step farther thanks to the amazing inspiration she has given me...

With that said, I am putting my time and talents to work in homage to my mentor but most importantly finding a cure for MS! From now until April 1, 2012, ANYONE who donates $5 or more will receive a FREE demo copy of my NEW poetry cd "Running Still Water" :)

All proceeds go toward the National MS Society. You can donate and gather more information on what Keisha and her team are all about by clicking on the photo of the Z-Maniacs or click this special link

Once you donate, contact me TS Hawkins for further details on how to acquire your FREE cd!!!

Friday, March 16, 2012

...The audacity of church...sinners convenebedecked in saintly pastiesthe just enough to render them better than the naked truthBibles high as church bellscongregants spiral down through off-pitched hymnsstripping "the word"Lord only knows that the cover charge was too steepnot wanting to debate with Satan's bouncerswho usher in whomever they pleaseI remain homethe Devil dare not find me there today

Monday, January 9, 2012

She told me we would dance on moonlight and kiss while still water turned pale with jealousyShe told me that tomorrow was yesterday's dream to wake up alongside me; create the us un-inked by strangersShe told me we were each other's one, only, sole soul...mate; check...She told me that the pawns of the past would never rook the present. So when she found her new queenShe told me it was over with the "its not you, its me". With all whatever left to muster on my chessShe told me to have faith in her. The problem was...I did...